


Nothing Wrong with a Little (Extra) Attention

by ficmewrong



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bedwetting, Claudia Stilinski Memories, Diapers, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Infantalism, Nightmares, Non-sexual, Not Incest, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Parent, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2842316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficmewrong/pseuds/ficmewrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been clinging to his dad lately, desperate for extra attention and affection. </p><p>*Check out chapter 3 for Christmas! Stilinski feels</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to prompter!

“Morning, kiddo,” John says as Stiles comes fumbling down the stairs nearly tripping over his untied shoes as he spastically tugs on a plaid over shirt.

  
“Mmfff,” Stiles mumbles in acknowledgment around the folded paper that is in all likelihood probably his homework assignment shoved into his mouth.

  
“You’re gonna be late,” John tells him in between sips of coffee, hiding a smirk at the glare Stiles shoots him.

  
John tracks his son’s movements lazily as Stiles searches the living room frantically for his backpack. Stiles lets out a muffled shout of victory that nearly has his dad spilling coffee on his clean uniform.

  
“Inside voices in the morning,” John condescends, but Stiles is too busy trying to singlehandedly shove a mess of papers into his backpack to pay him any attention. “Sit,” he tells Stiles, gesturing with a nod to the chair across from him at the kitchen table.

  
Stiles does as he’s told without taking his eyes off the contents of his papers, plopping sideways onto the chair. John gets out of his own chair with a roll of his eyes and kneels in front of Stiles, lifting Stiles’s foot onto his thigh so he could tie his shoe.

  
“I can’t find my math assignment, I know I - ” Stiles stops mid-sentence, prompting John to look up at him. “Are you tying my shoes for me?” Stiles asks, surprised.

  
“You would’ve forgotten and probably broken your neck,” his dad replies, chuckling at the incredulous look Stiles gives him.

  
“I’m …not even going to dignify that obviously unfounded comments with a response,” Stiles tells him.

  
“Yeah, okay, Bambi,” John says as he finishes lacing up his kid’s shoes and gets to his feet. “You better head out, class starts in three minutes.”

  
“What’s one more tardy?” Stiles asks around a smirk, standing up and throwing his arms around his dad.

  
John stands there motionless, thrown off guard by the unexpected hug. He doesn’t have time to reciprocate before Stiles is bounding out the front door, tossing a “bye, dad!” over his shoulder.

  
John shakes his head and goes back to his coffee.

  
|-|

  
Sunday afternoon. Could anything be better than a Sunday afternoon? No work, no kid, no pressure, just a day of watching football and drinking beer alone on the couch.

  
Except, then there’s Stiles crashing in through the front door, bright and early and oh so loud.

  
“Already back from Scott’s?” John calls out, slightly concerned. Stiles never comes back from Scott’s before late afternoon and it’s only eleven.

  
Stiles doesn’t respond as he walks into the living room and flops onto the couch beside his dad. John waits a couple minutes for Stiles to talk, but his son is staring intently at the game still paying on the screen.

  
“Everything okay, kid?”

  
“Hmm?” Stiles asks, turning to face him. “Why wouldn’t it be?” Stiles sounds genuinely confused and it does nothing to lessen John’s own bafflement.

  
“Just get the sudden urge to watch football?” John questions because if there was one thing Stiles never subjected himself to willingly it was watch a game of football.

  
“Oh. It’s your day off,” Stiles tells him simply, as if that somehow answers everything.

  
Hell, maybe it did. John may have raised Stiles for sixteen years but the kid was a still a mystery so he lets it go and takes another sip of his beer.

  
|-|

  
John looks up when the door to his office swings open and is met with the sight of Stiles struggling to carry two cups and a paper bag while simultaneously flinging his leg back to kick the door shut behind him.

  
Stiles takes the seat across from his dad’s desk and sets down the food he’d brought in, smiling broadly.

  
“Is it a veggie burger?” John asks hesitantly. He loves his kid but god he could not choke down another one of those sorry excuses for a meal.

  
“Nope,” Stiles answers, popping the ‘p’ and still grinning.

  
“Well, what did I do to deserve the reward?” John asks, smiling but still cautious. A Stiles with ulterior motives is not a Stiles he wants to deal with tonight.

  
Stiles shrugs in response, picking up his drink and slurping his straw obnoxiously. John’s tempted once again to asks Stiles if everything is okay, but he refrains. Stiles will talk to him when he’s ready.

  
At least, he hopes so.

  
|-|

  
It’s nearing two in the morning when John hears footsteps on the stairs. He looks up from the case file he’s been studying for the past couple hours in the low light given off from the television screen to see Stiles walking slowly into the living room.

  
Stiles’s stops at the bottom of the staircase, dark hair all over the place and rubbing at his eyes with fisted hands like a tired toddler. John remembers back when Stiles was about three years old and he would wake up every morning around four when John was leaving for the morning shift. Stiles would walk out into the kitchen, looking an awful lot like he did right now, and hand John his bottle to be filled with milk. It had always been John’s favorite part of the day.

  
“Did I wake you?” John asks, gesturing to the television that was playing a rerun of Magnum P.I.

  
Stiles shakes his head, barely stifling a yawn as he crosses over to the couch. He sits down unnecessarily close and his father spares him a curious glance, but doesn’t comment. Stiles is either completely unfazed or didn’t actually catch the look, but either way he doesn’t hesitate to grab John’s arm from where it’s stretched along the back of the couch and pull it around himself as he snuggles closer. He curls his legs up until he can tuck his feet beneath his dad’s thigh and press his face against his dad’s chest.

  
Stiles yawns again, eyes fluttering shut, and hands gently twisting in John’s shirt. John lets it all happen without a word, allowing Stiles to physically manipulate him into cuddling.

  
He isn’t going to complain.

  
|-|

  
John swears he hears the scream the second his head hit his pillow.

  
He’s down the hall and in his son’s room before even a single thought can cross his mind. He flings the door open, focus immediately fixing on Stiles who is thrashing around on the bed, a terrifying mixture of heartbreaking whimpers and raw screams tearing from his throat.

  
John’s standing by his bed in a second, reaching out carefully to shake Stiles awake. He knows he isn’t supposed to wake Stiles. He remembers that’s what the pediatric psychiatrist had told him when Stiles began having night terrors after his mother’s death.

  
But that man clearly did not know the torture of watching your child fight off the demons in his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut as if trying to hold back his tears even in his sleep.

  
John could not just stand there and watch it.

  
He reaches a hand out and grips Stiles’s shoulder firmly, jostling him slightly.

  
“Wake up, kid. You’re okay,” John coaxes but the only response he gets is a whine. “C’mon, Stiles. You’re alright,” he tries again, shaking Stiles a bit more roughly.

  
The sharp scent of urine hits John hard and he can just make out from the pale moonlight the way the blue sheets have grown darker beneath Stiles.  
“Aw, hell,” John mutters to himself, trying all the harder to rouse his son.

  
When Stiles does wake it’s with such intense flailing that he nearly pitches off the bed. John barely manages to catch him, hands just grabbing beneath Stiles’s arms before he falls face-first onto the floor.

  
“Whoa, kiddo,” John breathes out.

  
Stiles looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes and John can see the way they’re shining with tears.

  
“Hey, you’re safe,” John assures him, shifting Stiles so he is sitting more firmly on the bed rather than hanging half way off of it.

  
The movement makes John remember the sheets and that Stiles really shouldn’t be sitting on those. He can tell the exact moment Stiles realizes what happened because he freezes beneath John’s hands and it’s only a split second later that his face is contorting into that half-frown that always signals impending tears.

  
John has just enough time to say, “Stiles-” before the crying starts. It’s not dramatic, Stiles barely makes a sound except for a small hiccuping noise, but that doesn’t make it any less heart wrenching.

  
“It’s okay, kid,” John tells him, trying to sound reassuring. “Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up.”

  
Still gripping Stiles beneath his arms, John hefts him to his feet. Stiles makes no move to catch his own weight though and it’s only his father’s hold on him that keeps him from slinking to the ground. He’s crying more heavily now and it seems that there’s too little time between one breath and another.

  
Knowing full well Stiles is too shaken up to be much help if any, John squats slightly in an attempt to gain enough leverage to hoist Stiles up into his arms. It’s easier than John expects it to be to settle Stiles on his hip. He halfway expects some sort of protest, an embarrassed “Daaaaad” to come from his son, but he gets nothing. Stiles is much lighter than he’d anticipated and for a moment all he can think about is how frail Stiles had been during the whole nogitsune debacle, how close Stiles had seemed to just keeling over.

  
Stiles sniffles against John’s neck where his upturned nose is pressed to John’s skin and John shakes the thoughts of how close he’d come to losing his child away. He walks out of Stiles’s room, stopping at the hall closet to grab a towel, before heading to the master bathroom. Showering didn’t seem like much of an option at the moment and the master was the only one with a bathtub.

  
He manages to turn the knob on the bath with one hand and reach down to plug the drain while still holding Stiles with the other arm. He sits on the toilet, keeping Stiles in his lap and whispering words of comfort as he waits for the bathwater to fill.

  
John twists the knob when the tub is a little over half full, dipping a hand in to make sure it isn’t too warm. Stiles’s tears haven’t subsided, but he doesn’t sound as close to a panic attack anymore. John stands and sets Stiles on the edge of the tub before helping him strip off his clothes. Really, Stiles’s hands are shaking so much that John ends up just pushing them aside and doing it for him.

  
He grabs Stiles’s face gently with both hands, wiping the tears on Stiles’s cheeks away with his thumbs. John’s touch is gentle when he urges Stiles into the bath and rubs a comforting hand across his bare shoulders.

  
“I’ll give you some privacy, okay?” John asks carefully, running a hand through Stiles’s hair. It’s a bit of a ridiculous notion considering he just undressed Stiles, but Stiles nods minutely in agreement so he leaves Stiles alone.

  
By the time John gets back to the bathroom, after stripping Stiles’s bed and throwing his sheets in the washer and changing his own damp clothes, Stiles is fast asleep in the tub. John smiles to himself before pulling the drain and lifting Stiles out of the bath. Stiles doesn’t wake as John wraps him in a towel and takes him down the hall and into his bedroom. He doesn’t wake when John lays him carefully down on the fresh sheets. John leaves him wrapped in the towel and pulls a blanket up to his chin.

  
John sits up the whole night in Stiles’s less than comfortable desk chair, afraid to leave his son’s bedside in case of another nightmare.

  
|-|

  
“You sure you’re alright?” John asks, lingering in his son’s doorway.

  
“Yeah,” Stiles answers from his bed, sounding anything but sure.

  
“I can call in,” John offers, not keen on leaving Stiles alone after the whole ordeal the night before.

  
“You’re short staffed already,” Stiles points out. He’s right and John knows it, but that doesn’t make leaving any easier.

  
John strides into the room and bends down next to Stiles’s bed, aware of Stiles’s curious stare. He steps back, revealing the nightlight he’d purchased that afternoon. It was a small snowman and it was the only one he could find, but with Christmas fast approaching he hoped Stiles wouldn’t mind it.

  
Stiles smiles at him and offers a shy thanks. John tugs his comforter up to his chest and Stiles snuggles a bit further down in his bed.

  
“If you need anything, just call me. Okay?”

  
Stiles nods and John bends down to press a kiss to his forehead.

  
It was going to be a long shift.

  
|-|

  
John has the next night off and he’s only mildly surprised when Stiles walks into his room carrying his pillow.

  
John thinks the nightmare must have really shaken Stiles up, enough to where he wants to feel safe in the same bed as his dad.

  
Another part of John thinks this all started before the nightmare, this need for affection. Whatever it is, John drifts off to sleep with Stiles tucked securely in his embrace.

  
|-|

  
When Stiles asks to tag along with him on patrol the next night, John is worried. It’s a Friday night and rather than hanging out with friends or playing video games or whatever it was Stiles did in his spare time, he wanted to stay up all night locked in a car with his father. John concedes, of course he does, because he’s never really been able to turn down this big, doe-eyes.

  
So he lets Stiles come with him and listens to all the stories Stiles tells as they drive leisurely around town. He’s missed this, the easy way Stiles is talking to him now reminds him of the days before werewolves when the two of them actually used to spend time together.

  
And maybe that’s what this was.

  
Maybe Stiles just needed more attention.

  
|-|

  
It’s become a habit that whenever John gets off of work late, he’ll shut the lights off for Stiles.

  
Stiles will fall asleep now with his bedroom light still on, door wide open, the complete opposite of the way he has slept for the past seven or so years. So when John gets home, he shrugs off his work coat, locks the front door, and makes his way upstairs. He turns on the little snowman nightlight beside Stiles’s bed, presses a soft kiss to his son’s temple, and shuts the light off on his way out.

  
He closes the door somewhat but is always careful to keep it slightly open, letting the light from the lamp in the hall illuminate the entry to Stiles’s room.

  
He is always sure to keep his door open a little bit too, the light from his bathroom left on to brighten his own doorway, just in case Stiles chooses to wander into his bedroom.

  
|-|

  
It’s about a week and a half after the first accident and Stiles has had two more, all accompanied by nightmares and varying degrees of panic.

  
By the fourth time, it’s practically a routine for them.

  
Stiles doesn’t fall asleep in the bath this time though, too frightened from whatever had waken him this time around. Stiles never offers explanations and John’s too afraid to ask.

  
Stiles sits cross-legged on John’s bed and the two of them play Battleship until four in the morning.

  
|-|

  
The nighttime attachment has turned into daytime clinginess and John wonders if he is right to be concerned with how terrified Stiles is of being away from him.  
Stiles spends his afternoons doing homework in his dad’s office while John works on the never-ending pile of paperwork that is always on his desk. And while maybe John can admit it isn’t normal for a teenager to want to spend so much time with his father, he does like knowing where Stiles is all the time now. And, hey, he’s even doing his homework. That has to count for something, right?

  
So maybe it isn’t exactly normal, but Stiles has never been exactly normal so John decides not to sweat it too much.

  
|-|

  
The real worry kicks in when John has to work a difficult case - a time consuming case - because Stiles seems increasingly desperate for his attention and John just doesn’t have the ability to give it.

  
It’s a more dangerous case than what Beacon Hills is used to, involving a kiddie rapist and murderer, and John isn’t willing to risk Stiles getting mixed up in any of it. The late nights aren’t much of an option with this one, unfortunately, and he can’t let Stiles tag along.

  
Stiles understands on some level, John knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from being upset. John feels guilty every time he has to blow his son off, but his number one priority as a father is protecting his child.

  
|-|

  
It’s after what feels like the fiftieth time that he’s had to tell Stiles that no, he couldn’t come along on patrol, that it happens.

  
The two of them are standing in the bullpen of the station and Stiles has an accident and John doesn’t know what to do. Not here, not now, he doesn’t know how to handle this. But then Stiles is looking at him like he’s just this side of bursting into tears and John knows he has to do something, so he guides Stiles into the employee restroom, nudges him into a stall, and goes to find him pants.

  
Luckily for the both of them, there’s a pair of track pants for working out stuffed in the back of his work locker. The pants are obviously too big for Stiles and he has to hold the waistband to keep them from falling down, but it’s better than nothing.

  
“C’mon, lets go home,” John says gently as he leads Stiles into the parking lot.

  
“But work?” Stiles asks, sniffling slightly.

  
“It’s fine, they can last the night without me.”

  
John doesn’t miss the satisfied smile that flickers on Stiles’s face.

  
|-|

  
They’re having dinner in the living room that night, sitting at the coffee table when John brings it up.

  
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

  
Stiles stares at him blankly and John might believe that Stiles didn’t understand if it weren’t for the way the tips of his ears turn red.

  
“Wetting the bed when your scared is one thing, but having an…accident,” John says, choosing his words carefully because he didn’t want to offend Stiles by being crude, “in the middle of the day, there might be something wrong.”

  
Stiles won’t make eye contact and he’s stopped eating and John would feel guilty if it weren’t for the fact that he is genuinely concerned with his child’s health.

  
“I’m not trying to embarrass you, Stiles, I just - ”

  
“It wasn’t,” Stiles blurts out, looking astonished with his own outburst.

  
“What wasn’t?” John asks, confused.

  
“It wasn’t,” Stiles starts, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for whatever he was about to say, “an accident.”

  
“…What?” John questions, trying to understand what the hell his kid was talking about.

  
“I, uh,” Stiles stammers, blushing furiously. He exhales loudly, closes his eyes, and says in a mad, barely intelligible rush, “I-sort-of-did-it-on-purpose-at-the-station-because-you-were-ignoring-me-and-whenever-it-happens-you-always-take-care-of-me-and-this-is-going-to-soun-stupid-but-it-made-me-feel-safe-and-I’m-so-sorry-please-don’t-be-mad.”

  
John pauses for a moment, staring at his son while Stiles looks clenches his eyes shut even tighter.

  
“…Okay.”

  
Stiles’s eyes snap open and he stares at his dad in complete shock.

  
“Okay?” he asks hesitantly.

  
“Okay,” John repeats simply, nothing more, nothing less.

  
“…Really?” Stiles asks incredulously.

  
“You said it makes you feel safe?” John questions.

  
“…Yeahhhh,” Stiles drawls.

  
“Then okay.”

  
John hopes Stiles’s happy smile is worth whatever the hell he just got himself into.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles has no idea what he had been thinking. Why did he think any of this - the accident at the station, the admitting to his dad that it wasn’t exactly an accident - was in any way a good option?

  
Seriously, he has absolutely no idea how he ever mentally got to the place where it seemed totally acceptable for him to shit himself to garner his father’s attention. At his dad’s workplace, no less!

  
Sure, it hadn’t actually seemed all that insane in the moment. Then again, none of his cockeyed plans ever did, really. Stiles had wanted his dad to focus on him, just for a moment, because his dad had been so wrapped up in the case lately that he had barely had a second to spare for Stiles.

  
And, sure, Stiles understood that the case was important. And he understood that his dad was keeping him far away from it so he didn’t become the next target of a child molester and serial killer. And really he appreciated his dad’s concern regarding that situation, but it didn’t mean he appreciated being ignored.  
Stiles had never handled being ignored very well, his father and Scott could surely testify to that.

  
But, still, what did it say about him that he was willing to go to such great measures to get his dad’s attention? What did it say about him that he would even want that kind of attention, the kind where he enjoyed being treated like a small child.

  
But he did enjoy it. He did. He hadn’t been lying to his dad when he said it made him feel safe. And, well, in his life feeling safe didn’t exactly come easily.  
So maybe he wasn’t totally insane. Maybe there was a valid reason for him to like being treated like a little kid by his dad again. After all, when he was really that young his dad had seemed like superman, completely capable of stopping anything from harming him. So, yeah, not totally insane.

  
And his dad had been cool with it, too!

  
Okay, well, maybe “cool with it” was stretching it a bit since, honestly, he mostly seemed shocked into complacency.

  
But he hadn’t freaked out! He hadn’t judged Stiles for it, not really, and that was more than Stiles had expected because, well, he thinks most fathers would have.  
Seriously, your son suddenly telling you he enjoyed the way you take care of him when he pisses himself after a nightmare? Enjoyed it so much that he intentionally stepped it up a level and shit himself in public? In your place of work? To force you to spend time with him?

  
Yeah, that’s a pretty legit reason for any father to be freaked out, if not straight up pissed.

  
But his dad was different.

  
His dad understood.

  
And when it comes right down to it, Stiles really could not wish for anything better than that.

|-|

“Hey, kid,” his dad says as he walks into the kitchen after his shift and an apparent trip to the grocery store, ruffling Stiles’s hair as he passes.

  
“Hey,” Stiles responds, trying to look busy with his homework and not like he had just been sitting there and waiting for his dad to come home.

  
It is all for naught though when his dad sets the bags on the counter and glances at the sheet of paper that barely has half an equation on it and smirks. Damn his detective skills.

  
“Busy?” his dad asks sarcastically, a knowing gleam in his eyes and Stiles isn’t quite sure why now he feels himself blushing at his father knowing how attention starved he is when less than 24 hours ago he had flat out told his dad as much.

  
It’s a little ridiculous that he feels he needs to hide his eagerness, play it cool. Almost like playing hard to get…which is a really weird thing to think about in connection with his father, but it’s strikingly accurate. Stiles doesn’t want to appear desperate. Desperation freaks people out. Desperation chases people away and the absolute last thing he wants to do is drive his dad away with his clinginess.

  
He has halfway convinced himself to just try and play this whole thing off as some twisted joke and pretend he hadn’t actually meant any of it when a soft package hits the back of his head.

  
He whips around to face his dad, totally shocked at the unexpected (and unprovoked, Stiles would argue) attack, only to be met with his father’s devilish smirk. He stares slack-jawed at his dad until his dad makes a very pointed motion of shifting his eyes from Stiles to the tile floor.

  
Stiles follows his gaze and sees none other than a small pack of adult-sized diapers.

  
Just sitting there, accusingly, on the kitchen floor.

  
The blue, plastic packaging seemed to be mocking him, saying, “You brought this on yourself.”

  
Though as embarrassing as the situation was - and, oh, it was embarrassing - Stiles couldn’t help the jolt of happiness that ran through him. He feels a smile breaking free on his face, but he forces it back. What if happiness isn’t the appropriate reaction here? What if this is just his father’s way of ensuring he wouldn’t have to help Stiles anymore? If Stiles was wearing the diapers, his dad wouldn’t need to help him cleanup when he has an accident after a nightmare. Oh God. This was obviously just his dad’s way of telling him to back off and -

  
“Stiles?”

  
Stiles realizes his internal panic must have been showing on his face because suddenly his dad’s much closer, crouching in front of his chair and putting a hand on his shoulder. He looks concerned. Very concerned. Why is he concerned? The last time Stiles remembers receiving that particular look, his dad was telling him he had to go talk to a grief counselor. Oh god, was he going to make Stiles go to therapy again? Over this? Stiles is quickly thinking himself into a panic attack when his dad continues.

  
“Hey, kiddo, I thought this was what you wanted,” his dad tells him, squeezing his shoulder. “You don’t have to use ‘em, it’s not a big deal, Stiles.”

  
Oh. _Oh._

  
“Sorry,” his dad tell hims sincerely, patting his shoulder as he stands to his feet.

  
Stiles shoots a hand out and grabs his dad’s wrist before he can walk away. His dad raises an eyebrow at him, but stops anyway.

  
“I did,” Stiles says honestly, motioning towards the diapers still on the ground. “I do.”

  
“Okay,” his dad says simply. “Then it’s something we’ll try.”

  
He says it like this conversation - like this whole situation - is just par for the course and Stiles has never been more thankful.

|-|

Everything he had been thankful for comes to a screeching halt only a couple hours later.

  
He’s sitting cross-legged on his dad’s bed, making flash cards for the SAT while his dad lounges against the headboard and reads over something or other for work, when it happens. He’s wearing a diaper, he had put one on right away after their conversation, so it stands to reason that using that diaper would not be a big deal. He didn’t even hesitate. He hadn’t even thought twice about it. In theory, that is exactly what he was supposed to do.

  
But then his dad’s staring at him, somehow knowing almost the exact moment Stiles lets go, and it’s all terribly awkward. They stare at each other for God knows how long, neither of them making a move, neither of them knowing what move to make, and it’s just absolutely awful.

  
Stiles is seriously wishing he had just tried asking his dad to play catch or something - you know, some typical TV family sitcom way of father-son bonding - instead of this.

  
His dad gets off the bed and leaves the room and Stiles still can’t move. He’s frozen to his spot. This is quite possibly his worst idea to date and he’s the kid who thought it would be fun to go gallivanting through the woods to look for half a corpse.

  
But then his dad comes back with a large bath towel and spreads it out on the ground at the foot of the bed, setting a plastic bag from the store beside it. He looks up at Stiles and motions at the towel with a hand and Stiles slides slowly off the bed, standing there uncertainly.

  
“Lie down,” his dad instructs him and he does as he’s told though he’s so nervous he ends up kicking his dad’s leg.

  
His dad just takes it in stride though and sets to completing the task at hand. His hands are freezing where they touch Stiles’s hips to pull down his sleep pants. The pants come off easily enough and his dad just barely hesitates for a moment before peeling back the tape at the sides of the diaper.

  
Everything after that is an absolute nightmare though. His dad’s movements are steady and methodical and that should be comforting, Stiles thinks, but it’s not. Probably because Stiles can’t find anything comforting in the moment, not when he feels so exposed. He doesn’t know why it feels that way now when he’d been a-okay with his father stripping him for a bath, but this is different. There are no tears forcing his dad to take action, no nightmares that Stiles can place the blame on.

  
Nope, Stiles put himself in this situation this time. And his dad had acquiesced.

  
Stiles is starting to feel really guilty, almost enough to tempt him into telling his dad to stop and that Stiles can finish it on his own. But then his dad’s large hand comes to rest on his stomach and rubs slow, soothing circles. The wipes his dad uses feel like ice against his bare skin, but the hand keeps rubbing and somehow everything’s okay.

|-|

“Dad?”

  
It’s a little past three in the morning when Stiles hears the front door click shut, signifying his dad’s return from work, when he calls out. His dad is standing in the doorway to his room less than thirty seconds later, still wearing his uniform jacket. The fact that his dad came straight up to his room and hadn’t even stopped to take it off like his dad always does makes Stiles smile.

  
“You okay, kid?” his dad asks and Stiles feels the slightest twinge of guilt when he recognizes the concern on his dad’s face, but mostly he’s just pleased.  
“Yeah, ‘m fine. Just glad your home,” he says, words slightly muffled from where his mouth is partially blocked by his comforter.

  
His dad smiles at him, but it quickly falls when he glances at the bright red numbers on Stiles’s bedside alarm clock.

  
“What are you still doing up, Stiles?” his dad questions sternly. Stiles knows he isn’t mad though, not really. Just concerned.

  
“Can’t sleep,” he mutters honestly.

  
“Nightmares?” his dad asks as he steps further into the room, taking a seat beside Stiles on the bed.

  
Stiles shrugs halfheartedly. It isn’t really an answer and they both know it, but he doesn’t like to worry his dad more than necessary.

  
“You know you can talk to me, right, son?” his dad inquires and Stiles can hear the sincerity in his father’s words, he can feel the weight of that sentiment.

  
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, voice a little choked. “I know I can, I just…” he trails off, he isn’t sure what to say here. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to talk to his dad about it, the nightmares, but he just doesn’t know how. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  
“You could tell me what it was about,” his dad offers softly and Stiles seriously wants to know how he does that - how he always seems to be able to read Stiles’s thoughts.

  
Stiles is quiet for a minute as his father rubs a large hand up and down his back. He knows he doesn’t have to talk about it. If he chooses not to, his dad will drop it. He knows that. And, normally, that’s exactly what he’d do. He’d swear he was fine, that he didn’t even really remember the dream so there was nothing to talk about.

  
But tonight it feels different, not only like he could tell his dad but like he should tell his dad and Stiles can’t remember the last time he’s wanted to openly discuss feelings with his father. So he inhales deeply, lets out a somewhat shaky breath, and goes for it.

  
“It was about mom,” he says and that simple sentence is enough to cause his dad’s hand to pause on his lower back.

  
His dad is silent for a moment and Stiles is starting to regret saying anything, but then his dad picks back up the steady motion of rubbing a hand along his spine and gives Stiles a small, sad smile.

  
“Go on,” his dad urges gently.

  
“It - it was about when she died,” he answers, fiddling with the edge of his blanket. His dad’s hand moves from his back to his head, fingers softly threading through his hair.

  
“I know you miss her, son,” his dad says delicately. “I do too.”

  
Stiles nods once in response, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think he can form actual words without crying so he keeps his mouth locked firmly shut, jaw clenched uncomfortably.

  
“How about I get you some warm milk?” his dad offers and Stiles knows it is at least partially an excuse for his dad to leave the room, probably in hopes that Stiles won’t notice the tears in his dad’s eyes.

  
Stiles doesn’t think the milk will do much good, but he accepts anyway, allowing his father to have a moment of privacy downstairs while he heats up the milk. His dad comes back not three minutes late and resumes his position on Stiles’s bed, handing him the warm mug.

  
“Careful,” his dad chastises gently when Stiles immediately takes a sip of the hot liquid.

  
Stiles burns his tongue and he was right about the milk not helping, but he’s thankful for it anyway.

  
He couldn't ask for a better dad.


	3. Christmas chapter!

Christmas hasn’t been a big deal in the Stilinski household for years. The holiday season following Stiles’s mother’s passing had been a rough one and neither John nor his son had felt much like celebrating. Not when every ornament, candy cane, and carol reminded the both of them so much of what they had lost.

  
The years after that had seen to making sure both father and son led busy lives and the Christmas stuff fell further and further down their list of priorities until it just stopped being on there at all.

  
And John hadn’t thought that was a big deal.

  
Stiles never said anything about it. He never once complained about not having a tree or not putting up lights or not doing any of the hundred holiday festivities Claudia had insisted upon when she’d been alive. He hadn’t complained and John was stupid enough to think that meant Stiles didn’t care, that he wasn’t interested in observing Christmas past getting presents.

  
But then on the 23rd of December, the two of them had been cuddled on the couch and faced with the misfortune of nothing to watch on television other than a 24 hour marathon of the movie Elf.

  
The first time through Stiles had laughed throughout the whole thing, but when it started up the second time (and he was forced to watch it again), John noticed that the smile on his son’s face seemed sad, almost regretful. His laughter had died down to occasional giggles and even those sounded unhappy.

  
Still, Stiles said nothing and that in itself was nearly enough to break John’s heart. He hadn’t realized before now that his son actually wanted to celebrate Christmas - really celebrate it - and he mentally vowed then and there to make sure that it happened this year.

  
He just had to hope he could give his son a real Christmas in 24 hours.

|-|

John wakes Stiles up bright and early the morning of the 24th. Well, not really, considering it’s only five am and the sun won’t actually rise for at least the next two hours. But the early bird gets the worm and all that, right?

  
It takes a minute or two of shaking to rouse Stiles and even then he barely cracks his eyes open. He stares up at his dad in silent confusion, not even coherent enough to form a thought, and John would probably feel bad about forcing him to get up so early if not for the fact that he really needed as much of the day as he could get if he was going to pull this off.

  
“Up and at ‘em, kiddo,” John says, tugging the comforter off of Stiles.

  
Stiles glares at him with as much heat as he can muster so early in the morning and John tries not to laugh at the way it really just makes Stiles look like a pouting toddler.

  
“Wha’re you doin’?” Stiles slurs, trying to pull the blanket back up over himself, but John catches his hands.

  
“It’s Christmas Eve.”

  
“So?” Stiles asks and John feels his heart splinter a fraction more at the thought that he’s given his kid no reason to give a shit about the holiday in the past eight years.

  
He isn’t going to let those eight years of crappy parenting affect his plans for today though, so he grabs Stiles beneath his arms and hoists up onto his hip. Stiles groans unhappily, but slumps against him anyway.

  
He carries his already asleep kid down the hall and into the master bedroom where he already has a towel laid out on the floor. He lays Stiles down carefully, trying not to jostle him too much. Stiles does’t react much other than turning his head to the side and exhaling deeply. John has to nudge Stiles a few times to get him to lift his hips enough so that John can slide his pajama bottoms down. Stiles flinches slightly when John’s cold fingers touch his bare skin, but he’s still more asleep than awake until the wet wipe makes contact and Stiles lets out a whimper. Stiles tries to squirm away, but John hold him down easily enough with a palm on his lower stomach.

  
He manages to get Stiles into a clean diaper and wrestle him into a pair of jeans and a hoodie, all with Stiles still half asleep.

|-|

John takes Stiles to a little 24-hour diner they haven’t been to in years and Stiles only starts to look conscious when the waitress places a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of him. Stiles eats happily and without manners for the most part and he no longer seems upset with having been waken up.

  
Until he looks out the window to see the still dark sky and he fixes a glare at his dad.

  
“Why am I awake?” Stiles asks accusingly, mouth half full with bacon.

  
“Eat your food,” John responds instead of answering, taking a sip of his coffee.

  
Stiles still doesn't seem pleased, but he does as he’s told and John counts that as a win.

|-|

“Where are we going?”

  
“Stiles, I’ve told you five times that you will see when we get there,” John says, feigning impatience.

  
Stiles mumbles something under his breath that John elects to ignore and they’re pulling up to their destination not five minutes later. Stiles’s eyes go comically wide when he sees the pine trees lining the fences.

  
“Isn’t it a little late for a Christmas tree?” Stiles asks skeptically.

  
“Better late than never, right?” John counters and Stiles is out of the car before John can say another word.

  
Stiles head for the douglas firs with a happy trot, John trailing more slowly behind him. Stiles grins manically as he makes his dad stand up tree after tree for inspection and John wishes he had thought of doing this much sooner. He would have, if he’d known how happy it would make his kid.

  
After at least a half hour of testing out various trees, Stiles settles on the biggest - and, of course, most expensive - one he finds. John is this close to telling Stiles to pick another tree when the owner of the lot tells them it’s $80, but Stiles is smiling so widely and John doesn’t have the heart to take it away from him.

  
He shells out the $80 for the tree, even give the guy a $10 tip, and hopes to hell the damn thing will fit in their living room.

|-|

They set to baking Claudia’s infamous peanut butter cookies after they get the tree set up in its stand in the living room. John is putting the ingredients in the mixing bowl while Stiles stands behind him, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to help but unsure of what to actually do.

  
John turns to face Stiles once he’s cracked the last egg in the bowl and drags Stiles closer. He grips his son’s hips and lifts him swiftly onto the counter, handing him the bowl and a large wooden spoon.

  
“Stir it,” John instructs and Stiles sets to his task with a smile, his heels tapping against the cabinets as he swings his legs.

  
Stiles begs to lick the spoon when he’s finished and John caves. A couple raw eggs won’t kill him this once. John sets to rolling the dough into one inch balls and placing them on a cookie sheet, leaving them spherical so Stiles can press them with a fork when he’s done.

  
“You don’t have to do all this for me,” Stiles whispers and John stops what he’s doing to look at him.

  
“I know,” he tells Stiles simply, “but I want to.”

  
The smile he gets in return is small but genuine.

|-|

The doorbell rings while they’re waiting for the cookies to finish and Stiles is hopping down from the counter and rushing towards it before John can even make a move. He follows Stiles out of the kitchen and into the living room, walking in just in time to see Stiles opening the door for Parrish.

  
“Hi, Stiles,” Parrish says, greeting his son with a warm smile. “Merry Christmas.”

  
Parrish hands Stiles a perfectly wrapped gift and Stiles wastes absolutely no time starting to open it. John rolls his eyes fondly and pushes Stiles gently to the side so he can shake his deputy’s hand.

  
“Merry Christmas, sir,” Parrish repeats, handing him a fancy container labeled Hot Chocolate.

  
“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Jordan, when you stop by my house baring gifts.”

  
“Sorry,” Parrish responds with a smile before Stiles interrupts with a shout.

  
“Awesome!” Stiles yells, holding a crocheted yoda hat that only Stiles would love.

  
“Why don’t you stay for a cup?” John offers, smiling at his kid’s enthusiasm.

  
“Raincheck?” Parrish asks. “I’ve got some last minute shopping before my folks get in tonight.”

  
“Another time then,” John adds, reaching a hand out and lightly tapping the back of his son’s head.

  
Stiles looks scandalized for a moment before realizing that he had forgotten to thank Parrish. He rushes forward and hugs the deputy tightly, always going a step beyond what anyone is expecting. Parrish takes it in stride though, hugging Stiles back and smiling at John.

  
“Glad you like it,” Parrish tells Stiles genuinely when Stiles finally steps back. “We’ll have to marathon the movies together sometime,” he offers and Stiles’s face lights up.

|-|

When it gets dark outside, John makes the hot chocolate Parrish had brought them and fills a thermos.

  
“Come on,” he says, nodding towards the front door as Stile watches him from the couch.

  
“Where are we going?” Stiles asks curiously, scrambling to his feet.

  
John doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to because Stiles follows him to the door anyway. He makes Stiles stop before they go outside so he can wrap a scarf around his neck and pull his new hat onto his head as Stiles smiles broadly at him.

  
They drive around the town for a good forty minutes looking at the Christmas lights people put on their houses. John didn’t have the time to squeeze putting lights on their own house into the day, so staring at other peoples’ festivity would have to suffice.

  
And suffice it did. Stiles bounced excitedly in the passenger seat, alternating between singing along to the Christmas carols playing one the stereo and taking sips of their shared thermos of hot chocolate.

  
When they pulled up in front of a very extravagantly decorated house, there was a line of cars parked as people took pictures and videos. The second John put the car into park, Stiles was clumsily unbuckling his seat belt with mitten-covered hands and clambering across to his dad’s seat, plopping into his dad’s lap for a better view.

  
It’s certainly not the safest choice, but John allows Stiles to remain seated on his lap for the drive home.

|-|

When they get back home, the Polar Express, which Stiles had found equal parts exciting and terrifying as a child, plays not he television in the background as the two of them decorate their tree. It’s a little silly that he dragged these boxes of ornaments down from the garage and that they’re putting all of them up when there’s only a couple of hours until Christmas, but they go for it anyway.

  
When John finishes stringing the lights on the tree, Stiles sets to putting up the ornaments, seemingly favoring the most obnoxious and sparkly ones. Claudia had loved all things brightly colored and it made for a tree that would surely never be featured in a home decorating magazine, but it fit for them.

  
They’ve just finished placing the star atop the tree, Stiles sitting on his father’s shoulder, when Stiles let out a frightening shout.

  
“It snowed! It’s snowing! Dad, there’s snow!”

  
Stiles is damn lucky John didn’t end up dropping him with how startled he was, but sure enough there was a blanket of snow covering the ground and flurries still drifting down. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for Beacon Hills to get snow, but it wasn’t common either.

  
“We have to go outside!” Stiles exclaims, starting to wiggle so John would put him down.

  
“Stiles, it’s freezing outside,” John argues, knowing already that he wouldn’t win this battle.

  
“Daaaaaad,” Stiles whines, tugging at his father’s arm and trying to drag him towards the front door.

  
“Fine,” John says, with a put upon sigh, allowing Stiles to pull him towards the front door.

  
John doesn’t allow Stiles to go outside until he’s wrapped in his father’s heavy jacket, has mittens on his hands, his dorky hat on his head, and a scarf wrapped around his neck and nearly covering his mouth.

  
“Five minutes,” John says and Stiles gawks at him.

  
“At least fifteen!” Stiles argues, wanting to enjoy the snow as much as he could in case it all melted by morning.

  
“Ten,” John compromises, knowing Stiles would be too cold to stay outside for any more than five minutes anyway.

|-|

Sure enough, four and a half minutes later Stiles was rushing back indoors.

  
He helps Stiles shirk the excess layers before leading him upstairs to the bathroom. He runs an extra warm bath for Stiles, adding some bubbles he had bought at the store the day before.

  
He doesn’t even think twice about it when he starts shampooing Stiles’s hair and he wonders when exactly it got so easy for him to adjust to treating Stiles like a small child once again.

  
As he fills a cup with water and slowly pours it over his son’s tipped back head, shielding Stiles’s eyes with one of his hands, he thinks maybe these motions of parenting are like riding a bike. You never really forget how to take care of your child in these ways.

|-|

Stiles’s eyes are half-lidded by the time John finishes bathing him. He dresses Stiles in a Christmas themed red and green onesie and Stiles smiles at him, pleased with his new pajamas.

  
He tries to lay Stiles down on his bed, figuring sense it was Christmas Eve Stiles could sleep with him tonight, but is surprised when Stiles refuses and clings to him more tightly.

  
“You don’t have to sleep in here,” he tells Stiles, trying to sound reassuring through his confusion.

  
“Can’t sleep yet,” Stiles mumbles against his shoulder. “It’s not midnight.”

  
It had been a tradition that Claudia had insisted upon, staying up until midnight on Christmas Eve. John had completely forgotten.

  
“Okay,” he agrees, carrying Stiles back downstairs.

|-|

He lets Stiles open one present. It’s the only tradition they’ve really kept up over the years and Stiles beams up at him from his spot on the floor when he unwraps a box that contains a bottle with an elephant on it and a matching stuffed toy.

|-|

Stiles lasts until 11:46 pm, curled up against his dad on the couch. He has his bottle of warmed milk still in his mouth, his new stuffed elephant tucked securely beneath his arm. John rubs his back and cards a hand through his messy, brown hair.

  
He vows not to let another Christmas slip by them.


End file.
